Spaßmacher
by AvissAbyss
Summary: Second person point-of-view of 16-year-old Gamzee at yet another new high school. There's a lot of high school AU stories out there, so . . . Thank you for reading mine. GamTav and a very aberrant relationship with Karkat. Possible trigger warning: Cutting, abuse, mind rape, child molestation.
1. Das Leben ist schön

**AN: So, just something I wrote in my sketchbook when I was, uh . . . Gone? There's not a nice way to put it, haha. I'm not sure if I'll continue it; it really depends on the readers. Good luck to you all in all that you do and thanks for stopping by to read my story. :o)**

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You're not sure what to think anymore. You're too fucking stoned to even want to try to decipher your purpose. Even sober, though, you've lost interest in, well, everything. You remember the first time you got high. You were thirteen and you'd recently made new friends at the twentieth school you'd been to. Your mom was never mentioned around the house (if you tried to ask, your father would glare and tug at his goatee to keep from hitting you), and your dad moved around a lot for work. Of course, he _had_ to take you with him for legal reasons, but he didn't really like you. You were raised by "the help" (that's what Dad called them because he was, well, an asshole), and they'd been fired when you were twelve because, fuck, you don't know why. Without them, you had nothing. So you fell into a bad crowd and took your first puff from one fine-ass bowl outside a convenience store. You coughed a lot, but didn't feel much of anything. Around your twelfth hit, however, you were baked out of your mind. Over the years, you figured out that some weed would be laced with various things like God knows what, and you would almost die from the shit that people put in it. Different bowls would yield different results as well. Eventually, you just grew it in your closets (you always had one at every house, it seemed) to ensure your safety as well as its quality. You didn't want to end up in a hospital again with IVs sticking out of your hands and charcoal shoved down your throat in those white paper cups. The worst part of that experience was that you were alone. Your caretakers – surrogate parents – were gone and your dad didn't even care enough to scold you, to tell you that drugs were wrong and that he loves you too much to see you like that and that you should stop immediately before you died. _No one cared. _Your "friends" just dumped your seizing body in front of the hospital and left you to be found by someone else. Because they didn't want to get busted. Who laces dope with arsenic, anyway? Fuckin' creeps.

But today is a fresh start at a new school – school number twenty-six. Your alarm goes off in a slurry of giddy beeping and you turn it off almost instantly with a gentleness no one would assume you had by looking at you. You smile at the clock and thank it in calm, barely-there awakeness for bestowing upon you a beautiful sunrise of a new day. You stretch and pull yourself out of bed, the sheets sticking to your slick body in an almost pleading way. You pat them and apologize for leaving, but assure them that the separation will only last for about eight or so hours, depending on the commute. They calm down a bit and allow you to go shower. You never use the cold water. Ever. It reminds you too much of death. You almost drowned in the ocean when you were seven, and the liquid from the IVs were so cold in your veins and your throat. You get out of the four glass walls of your boiling stew of cleanliness and shake a little, both from habit and from the cold. You dry yourself off as best as you can and blow-dry your thick, wavy, black hair so it doesn't freeze outside. It's done that before. You head back into your room and pack your pipe full of God's homegrown goodness, lighting it up and enjoying the almost searing heat of your personal concoction. After a small fit of coughing, you grin to yourself. That was a motherfucking good batch. You finish it off slowly, savoring it, until you hit the resin. You're not particularly fond of it. You'll save it for when you run out of the good shit.

The clock tells you to get your ass dressed and down to the stop. You put on a long-sleeved cotton shirt, black in color, and your favorite jacket – the black one with the purple stripes on the arms. Dark jeans go over the comedic heart-splattered boxers you enjoy so much and you slip on your purple Converse without even putting on socks. Before going down the two flights of stairs to get outside (you never stay in one place for too long, but Dad likes to splurge on "mansions" - mostly to get as far away from you as possible), you douse yourself in cologne to mask the herb smell that sticks to you like the strongest and sweetest of glue. You manage to find the time to put on a bit of eyeliner to look more attractive to yourself (you rather hate everything about you so this makes you look a little less like yourself), and head out the door on the first of three stories to get to the bus stop just in time. You have a license and a very nice, expensive car, but you prefer to get chauffeured everywhere instead because it's nice to enjoy the sights and not worry about getting lost or paying for gas and all that crank. The fog and tingly numbness sets in as you take your seat in the very back – the little seat is just so fucking cute.

You have your headphones on (Audio-Technica, bitch), plugged into the ever-mainstream iPod "classic" that still has over one hundred forty gigs left of empty space, but you can still feel the stares of other teens boring into you. Perhaps it was the way you were dressed – goth, emo, scene, faggot – or the way you smelled? Or maybe it was the three giant-ass scars that were a permanent identifier since your dad threw a mirror at you three years ago? You don't even hate your dad for that; seven years of bad luck to him, you always say. But then, you don't really hate anything . . . Aside from you.

You just smile at your peers and give a little wink, receiving cringes and scoffs alike in return. Kids will be kids, you guess. The bus ride ends after thirty-five minutes (you counted via songs), and you're the last to get off. You wouldn't have it any other way. You hop a little to the soft ground below, wave to the bus driver and tell her thanks, to which she seems shocked, but waves back with a shy "you're welcome." You look ahead of you as she drives away to go park that big Twinkie monster, the cool October breeze caressing your entire body, twirling her fingers in your hair. You feel a little sad that you probably won't be here very long, but you agree with yourself that you'll certainly make the most of it. You unplug your headphones from your iPod, turning off the music device and tucking it away safely into your pocket. You turn off your fancy-shmancy smartphone and put it in your pocket as well. You don't really like it, you can't stand texting, and calling isn't your thing either. Even if you had friends. You mostly use it for internet capabilities, or telling Dad that you'll be late making dinner and to not hold up.

You take your headphones off your ears and put them around your neck instead, nuzzling into the warmth with a tender love that no one should really have for inanimate objects. Your therapist suggests getting a pet, but you're afraid you'll fuck that up, too. So for now, sheets, headphones, and clocks hold your heart. You pat your other pocket to make sure your supplies are still there and let out a little sigh of contentment when you realize that yes, your pencil and palm-sized notepad are still there. You never bring very much in the ways of school supplies. You're never there long enough to really get stuff situated in a locker or desk, you do homework at school instead of home, and your writing is too small to really require an abundance of paper. Stretching a little, you head to the main office with high hopes for this new place. The secretary, a short, plump lady that smells of brown sugar and love, looks at you with shock and horror as you walk into the warm, pretty room. She forces a smile after giving off expressions that say, "Oh dear God, I'm going to die today." You don't blame her. You're six-foot-three, lanky, dressed in dark colors, have your lip and tongue pierced, and, oh yeah, scary scars – instant bad guy.

You smile apologetically and ask if you could have another schedule if it wasn't too much of a bother. Dad used the first one to start up the fireplace, but you keep that tidbit of information to yourself. She asks for your name in a quiet, nervous voice and you chuckle and say, "Gamzee Makara, miss," in your deep, slightly-gravelly voice, showing your ID to prove it.

She nods after inspecting the card to make sure it isn't a fake, slightly more at ease with your politeness and truthfulness, and rolls her chair back from her desk to search in the cabinets behind her. She finds what she's looking for quickly and efficiently and gasps a little, putting a hand through her shiny brown hair. Yeah, that was the usual reaction. She brightens up considerably and the smile is no longer forced. She makes another copy of your paper of school fate (a fate that'll last for God knows how long) and hands it to you, giggling a little when you thank her for all her help and wish her a good day as you turn out into the long hallway.

"Calculus, Chemistry, Biology Two, AP English Four, Art, Music Theory, Computer Animation, and Physical Edjumacation," you mutter to yourself as you find your locker on the second floor. "Not too many dick around classes, huh? Oh, well. This motherfucker can still all up and get his chill on. No big deal." You certainly don't give off that aura of straight-A student, but the fact remains; looks can be deceiving. You only keep your marks so high so you can see the look on authority figures' faces when they realize you're not a total douche and are actually a pretty decent fellow. You want people to know that they should get to know somebody before assuming the worst of them.

As you humorously put your whole two items into your locker, you notice that you painted your nails last night. All of them but the ring finger on your left hand were a bright yellow, the aforementioned finger being a shiny black. You don't remember doing it, but you were pretty fuckin' blazed last night. You rub them and laugh a little; you didn't even go outside the lines. You also don't remember getting your vertical labret pierced, but you've had it for three years now and you still like it. You like clacking your tongue's barbell against the ring's inner metal inside your mouth. And you like clacking both piercings' jewelry against your teeth – its become a quirk nowadays whenever you're nervous or thinking. You're still surprised that no school has made you take them out yet, though you're not complaining. Maybe the next one will.

You close your locker door and click back the lock that was mandatory and, in fact, built into the locker itself and notice a kid about your age looking up at you. He comes up to around your collarbone, has amber-colored eyes and light tan skin (black against your porcelain ivory flesh), and his mohawk is slicked back and looks so soft that you want to touch it.

"Hey, motherfucker," you say cheerily, waving a little bit too flamboyantly.

The kid looks down and coughs a little before speaking. "Y-you're, uh, in front of my locker," he says quietly, a hand hovering over his mouth.

You blink and side-step out of the way quickly, saying, "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, bro." You zone out while watching him take supplies out of his full, organized locker that is inconveniently placed right beneath yours. The top rows of the shitton of lockers are a dark violet color while the bottom rows are a deep, almost blue shade of green – the school colors. Go, Rams, go!

You're thinking that it really doesn't make sense to have the lockers aligned as such, but you write it off as it's a big school and they need space to do some school shit and stuff because the little guy is done doing what he was doing and he's just sort of staring at you like a lost puppy. You smile a little and say, "Hey, I'm Gamzee, by the way. Who're you, locker-bro?"

His nervous line of a mouth curls up a little with the faintest smile. "I'm, uh, Tavros. Tavros Nitram. Are you . . . Makara?"

His question is followed on your part by slow blinking and rolling your barbell against your teeth as you wonder how the fuck he knows who you are. You look back down at him after you realize you zoned out again and ask, "What? How did you motherfucking know? I'm as new to this spacious learning facility as a prude is to anal."

He lets out a little snort at your, uh, colorful language and says, "You're the guy that turned down the Academic Team. Why'd you, uh, do that, if you're so smart?"

You lean against your, and his, locker and stare out into the hall. So many damn rooms. "Smarts ain't about the grades a motherfucker makes, Tavbro. It's about what's in your thinkpan and what's in your metaphorical heart. This motherfucker is not smart. I just get all up in the groove of doing work so the teachers will feel all shitty for thinking so little of me just 'cause I look the part of a criminal."

Tavros looks at you and you can see his eyebrows knit together from your peripheral vision as he processes what you said. "Uh, w-wow. That's . . . Pretty heavy, Gamzee."

You look over at him and grin, the scars crinkling up with the expression. "Ya think so? Maybe I should all up and become some sort of motherfucking philosopher."

He laughs at you and shakes his head slowly, holding his books to himself tighter. "I don't think people would take you very seriously, uh, bro."

You stare at him until you zone out again. Shit, that bowl was stronger than you thought. You start laughing and put a hand on his shoulder, mostly to hold yourself up. "Aw, shit, bro. You're a funny little motherfucker. What classes are you gettin' your swag on in?"

The two of you exchange schedules and you're saddened to find that you only have two classes with him: fifth and sixth hour. At least you got to dick around with him in art and theory. You really like this kid. Now a bittersweet taste fills your mouth as you wonder how long it will take before Dad takes you away from your new friend.

You get your shit out of your locker as the bells ring and he shows you where all the rooms are on a little map. Bros part ways with simple waves and head on to your Calculus and his English Three. You're the only junior in the class and the seniors stare at you in a particularly funny way. Since you're younger, they're both jealous of you, and are eager to butter you up so they can cheat off of you because you had to have some Goddamn brains to get in here. You smile at them all and give them a brief history of Gamzee that one Mr. Jake English suggests you do because "you're new here and all the other teachers do it."

You don't mind it at all, and everything is just so fucking funny to you anyway. Some girls wink at you, one mouths "I fuck on the first date," some mouth much less humorous and much more rude things, but you just chuckle at it all, taking none of it seriously. You take your seat and time flies as you leisurely do what's asked of you, zoning out here and there. Mr. English is quite impressed with you, but holds his tongue when you deny his request to join the Academic Team. It's not like you're going to be here for very long, anyway. Your only regret is that he's not your English teacher.

There are a few juniors in the next class, but still mostly seniors. Ms. Jane Crocker teaches the science classes as well as the home economics classes. She's a pretty sweet lady. Again, you give a short autobiography, and you take a seat next to the only person who sits alone. He glares at you and you think that maybe he was alone for a reason, but you don't take it to heart. If people want to be mean to you so they can feel better, then so be it. You don't mind. You only listen to half of what they say, anyway. Most of the time.

"Hey, assnugget," the guy says in a low hiss. "Why don't you scoot the fuck over and quit pining for my love gun?"

A smile creeps on your face slowly at his snarky retorts and you can't help but chuckle a little. "You're pretty motherfucking fiery for a little guy, huh?" you ask with a snort.

His expression is one of disbelief and his face turns red. He can _so_ not believe you just said that. Whatever it was that triggered him. "You fucking fuckass! I am not little!" Oh. That was it.

You pat his head affectionately and go back to taking notes with your tiny notepad that an ex-girlfriend of yours put unicorn and rainbow stickers on. You don't dislike her and never would. You're not one to hold grudges. She just couldn't stand the moving all the time thing. Not her fault. So it's a nice reminder of what you had, and also a bitter one in that you probably wouldn't have anything like it again. Your hand is faster than a dude losing his virginity and the smallfry on your left has simmered down a little and stares in awe at the graceful, flowing cursive letters you manage to make with a towering frame such as yours. It's pretty Goddamned beautiful. But you'll probably never see anything about you like that.

"How . . . How the fuck do you do that?"

You look over at your tablemate and permanent lab partner and raise an eyebrow. "Do what?" you ask groggily. You're glad you're still fucked up or maybe this wouldn't be so amusing. "Write? Motherfuckin' preschool, bro. Got my learning on all up in all sorts of shit."

"Don't be a smartass," the angry dude replies, narrowing his mahogany eyes slightly. You stare at them for a while, wondering how anyone's eyes could be so red. Maybe he's an albino? His skin is paler than yours, but it isn't pink and his hair and eyebrows are nightsky black. There's always makeup and hair dye, but- "ANSWER ME, DOUCHENOZZLE."

"Your eyes are all sorts of beautiful, bro," you say, continuing to write without even looking at your notepad.

He blinks at you, unsure of what the fuck to say to that. That certainly got him to shut up, because he didn't say another word for the rest of the hour, even when you had to partner up and work on a few worksheets together.

Both of you stay in the same place when the bell rings and you stare at him quizzically. You pull out your schedule and slide it over to him on the smooth black surface of the table. He begrudgingly takes a look at it and immediately groans.

"Ah, great," he says, putting his face in his arms. "I had that hour with you, now I have this one with you, and the next one, and the last one. Fuck my ass with a sauntering iron . . ."

"That's pretty motherfucking kinky, little bro," you say with a grin, honestly happy that you get to have so many hours with him. He's pleasantly unpleasant and his quips are more than enough comic relief to last you a lifetime.

"Oh, shut up. I'm Karkat Vantas, you creepy twat."

"Gamzee Makara."

"Shit, really? _You're_ the 'secret genius' all the teachers are creaming their jeans over?"

You sigh and shake your head. "I told Tavbro earlier that smarts ain't determined by grades and all that yack, but I'm too motherfucking tired to go over all of that again. I just wanna all up and get my sleep on."

You let your head fall to the table with a soft thud as the remainder of the class comes in with movements that all seem like one whole entity. You shoulda eaten something, idiot.

Angry munchkin dude sighs and puts his head on the table, too, staring at you with a tired expression. He can't be any older than you, but he has some serious dark circles and bags under his pretty eyes. "You know Tavros?" he asks, closing his eyes in slow flutters, like his anger is the only thing keeping him awake.

"Mmhm," you say back with a voice that's just as tired. "His locker's under mine and we all up and had nice chats. It was like a motherfucking miracle."

"Why do you talk like that? Are you stoned off your rocker or some shit?"

The series of tired giggles you exert are enough of an answer for him and he sighs again, muttering, "And you, of all of these cockgoblins, are the kid who's balls-deep in straight As. I don't believe this."

Ms. Crocker alerts the class that there's a new student, you, and you wave to them all like Miss fucking Universe. You've waved a lot today. You're not sure if you should stop or do another gesture. The bird is too obscure for a friendly greeting of strangers. Maybe a peace sign? Or how about a-

"Dildo Baggins, fucking help me here!" Karkat's voice chainsaws your ass right out of that thought bubble and you realize you've been zoning for quite a while. Class is almost half-over and he's only gotten three out of thirty group problems done.

"Oh, hey," you say back sheepishly. "Sorry, bro. I was thinking that I wave way too fuckin' much. Do you think I do?"

"I don't care about your homo acts of flamboyance, Gandalf the Gay. I can't do all examinations and all the notes and all the 'What if' bullshit fartbox questions they throw at us by myself and not have homework."

You nod and scoot a little closer, putting the tip of your bedazzled pencil on the next problem. "Here, you tell me what this motherfucker needs to be up and knowing and I'll do my damnedest."

The gnome of fury nods regretfully and gives you a bitchtits load of information and you just roll with it. It isn't very hard, but he looks like he has a lot of other issues to worry about and you're kite-flying your way through life with no worries, so you can't blame him. In fact, you like him. A lot. And you consider him a friend, even if he wants to rip your dick off and use it as a needle to play old vinyl records of love songs on the world's smoothest phonograph.

With a quarter of classtime left, you finish to his befuddlement. He looks over all of the answers and then stares back at you. "Holy shit, dude. I just . . . Wow."

You smile and nod once, taking the paper from his hand and walking the journey of a thousand miles to the front desk. You can feel kids, about half-and-half of juniors and seniors, staring at you as you hand Ms. Crocker the paper with a cheeky motion.

"Are you sure you're done, Gamzee?" she asks softly, reluctant to take the holy scripture from your decorated hand. "Is Karkat okay with this?"

"Yes!"

You turn around, as does everyone else, at your lab partner and laugh. "I guess he's okay with it, miss," you say, giving a sly wink to him, getting a sly finger in return.

"Oookay, then." She takes the paper and looks it over quickly, raises her eyebrows and nods, and then puts it in the Bio II folder for further looking-over when there isn't a load of grubby children surrounding her and haunting her dreams.

On your way back to your desk, you see a foot in the middle of the aisle. Yes, it is attached to a leg, and the leg is attached to a very mean-looking girl with light skin and blue eyeshadow and lipstick. She's kinda hot, actually. You tiptoe past said hot girl foot, much to her dismay and silent rage, and make it back to your seat safely. Karkat stares at you, mouth open just a little, and then looks back at meansexylady, and then back at you. "Dude," he exhales. "You managed to piss off Vriska by moving. New record."

You look up in her direction and she looks back at you in the middle of talking to a girl with short hair, green lipstick, and a very stylish outfit, and glares the glariest of glares. You wink at her and she bares her teeth like a rabid animal, the fashion lady turning and scoffing like she's the bee's knees or something. You gotta admit though, you'd hit it. Both of 'em.

You chuckle lightly and turn to VehicleFeline, wiggling your eyebrows in a motion similar to The Worm. "I think they dig me, bro," you say, tilting your head in their direction so they know you're talking about them.

"Doubt it, Frodo Teabaggins," he replies with a smirk. "They're kinda, hm, gay? Lezbehonest here, Gamzee. Even if they weren't, who'd want a loser like you?"

"I dunno, man. So far, I'm three pretty motherfucking important characters in the Lord of the Rings play-up. Who wouldn't want a motherfucker who can beat up orcs and get magic rings of the utmost miracle-making prowess?"

Your new friend snorts and smiles, actually fucking SMILES, and laughs quietly, covering his mouth with his hand. "Fuck, dude. I didn't know you actually read those books."

"And watched all the fucking movies, brother."

"Shiiiit."

As the day progresses, you find yourself feeling down. Like, straight-up sad. Two friends in such a short time. And you really don't want to lose them, however loose and forgettable these ties with you can be. You don't know if you're losing your high or if you really feel like shit over this, but either way . . . It sucks.

English goes by fast, the fastest of all of them so far. It's always been your favorite subject and you have a fondness for writing and a creativity that never ceases. Karkat is your partner in this class as well, and he tells you that he always requested to be alone because he hates these "cum-guzzling bonewhores" almost as much as he hates himself. He was in anger management for a while, passed it (somehow), but it's been a year and these kids just get dumber and dumber. The teachers acknowledged this, and his mentor in not losing one's shit recommended he be solo until he says otherwise. They also now acknowledge that even though he does have other friends, you're the only person he's willing to work with. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzballs inside, eh? Yeah, it does.

During lunch time, one can go off campus and you choose to get a ride to your place with Karkat. He doesn't mind driving you (at least, inside he doesn't, despite his flat-out rude protests), but his group of buddies notice his friendliness toward you and they gather around like African animals at a waterhole.

"Okay, okay, OKAY! Shut the FUCK up!" he yells, and you find it funny because he only comes up to just under your chest, and yet he's the most feisty person you've ever met. "His name is Gamzee Makara—YES THAT GAMZEE MAKARA, SHUT THE FUCK UP—and he's pretty smart and makes perfect fucking grades, and he's a little gay but that's okay because we're for equality and that shit doesn't have a price. Unlike your nose job, Aradia."

"H-hey! It was for medical reasons!"

Your chuckles turn to full-blown laughter and the group stares at you like you're a lunatic. Which, hey, you might be, but that's fine. It's all fine.

A girl slightly smaller than Karkat donning a hat with cat ears and a fake tail giggles against your stomach in a hug and says, "I like him very much! He's furrendly and funny."

Karkat sighs and pulls the girl off of you, to which both you and the girl frown and make sad puppy-kitty?-faces. "Alright, skidmarks," he says roughly. "Introduction time. The little cat one is Nepeta, that beefcake beside her is Equius (and he's only here because we like Nepeta and for some reason, she likes him but he's kinda a creepy cocknot and we don't really like him at all), the nerdy fuck is Sollux, nose job girl is his girlfriend and her name's Aradia, the princess-looking one is Feferi but she doesn't hang out with us all the time because her boyfriend, Eridan, is a controlling douche and we never hang out with him but he thinks he's better than us so whatever. The blind girl over there is Terezi (she smells things like a dog and it's fucking weird), and you already know Tavros. So, ta-fucking-da! Lemme give this nutsack a ride to his house and I'll get you all some food, too. What do you assbags want?"

As everyone begins shouting their orders from various restaurants (much to Karkat's displeasure), you walk over to Tavros and smile like a dolphin in heat. Because they do that now. "Hey, Tavbro! Long time, no see."

He smiles up at you in that cute insecure way of his. "Uh, hi, Gamzee. How's your day been s-so far?"

"It's been pretty motherfucking sweet. 'Bout to go to my house to get my chill on again, so it'll be even better."

"Your, uh, chill?"

It just occurs to you that not everyone partakes in the ritual that has saved your sorry ass, and not everyone approves and they might even hate you for it. And for some reason, you really don't want him to hate you. Stuck in your mental dilemma, you forget about everything else and obnoxiously clack your facial jewelry together in the world's most annoying symphony of surgical steel.

"Goddammit, Gamzee!" Karkat yells, unknowingly saving you from yourself. "Let's go to your place and get you stoned again so you quit fidgeting like someone with Tourette's." Oh, way to go and throw you back into the dilemma.

You look back at Tavros with fear and all the anxiety in the world and he looks back at you confused as ever. "Uh, yeah, bro. I get my chill on by smoking weed. I grow it myself and everything. Is that a problem?" Why the fuck do you care so much? You won't stop unless there's no more left in the world, anyway.

The little guy raises an eyebrow and asks, "Why would it be? It's, uh, not my life, and it would be wrong for me to tell you how to live yours. Haha, are you scared I'll, uh, judge you or something?"

You get a different kind of numb feeling and you feel like you want to cry with happiness and gratitude and fuck! You lean down and wrap your arms around his tiny body (which is actually pretty damn firm, huh) and take him up with you in the world's best motherfucking hug. He gasps at takeoff and pulls back at first, but he realizes you aren't gonna hurt him at all and manages to hug you back.

The girls "aw" and Karkat and Sollux don't judge and Equius doesn't really say much of anything. You put the kid down and smile at him. "Thanks, Tavbro. Do you partake?"

He plays with his fingers for a bit and says, "Uh, no, but it's just that, right? You're not seriously, um, seriously hurting yourself, right?"

You shudder and shake your head, memories of hospitals and bloodstains filling your mind. "Motherfuck no. I don't play that shit, bro."

Tavros smiles and laughs. "Okay, okay. Calm down . . . Bro."

The hash is as sweet as you remember and the first day of school can't be going any better than it is. Karkat's sitting on your bed, admiring the paintjob of deep purple and electric green splatter that you did yourself. You feel a twinge of embarrassment at not making the bed and not doing the laundry, but he doesn't seem to mind it. All the furniture in your room that is clearly big enough to be two rooms combined (and you even have a bedroom-sized bathroom, too) was made by you, a feat that impresses even sourcarpuss here. He doesn't take up on your offer of a hit or two, but doesn't seem to mind you doing it. You smoke in the bathroom, though, so he won't get unwanted smoke or stench on his person. He doesn't even mind you doing the laundry and even going so far as to wash your sheets, pillow cases, and blankets. You're suddenly very anal retentive and you don't know if it's because you want to impress or just be clean. You spray yourself down again with some fine man perfume and playfully spray some on Karkat, receiving a harsh smack to the face.

Only then does he really notice your scars. "Oh, um . . . Sor-"

"It's okay, bro. These wounds have been long healed. Won't cause this motherfucker no harm. Don't worry about it. Buy me some McDonald's, if you wanna make it up to me."

He rolls his eyes, but brings a hand up to your face. You sigh and tell him the whole story, about how your dad didn't like your face one day and threw the last piece of your mother at you. The mirror was a full body one, and you didn't think he was strong enough to lift it, but you didn't move even when he threw it because any touch by him felt, and feels, like love. No matter how rough.

"Wow, that's . . ."

"Dramatic?" You smile and chuckle a little, wrapping your arm over his shoulders. "I know, bro. Let's get going. I don't want to be all up and arriving late on day one."

"We're going to Popeye's, anyway, fuckass."

"Even. Fucking. Better."

The rest of the day was normal and fun. You and Tavros got to know each other better. You found out that he likes video games and roleplaying and Disney movies about fairies and never growing up and stuff. He was kind of a nerd. But it was endearing and, well, cute. You and Karkat teamed up in PE and threw giant red balls at everybody during the last ten minutes of class. It was fun. It was good for you. You forgot what friends were like. Karkat offered to drive you back home, but you declined, taking the bus instead. He looked somewhat disappointed, but that quickly changed when he had to drive everyone else home. You hugged him good-bye, and he instantly froze as if he'd been turned to stone.

"Thanks for being my bro, motherfucker," you said quietly, placing the side of your face atop of his.

He eased up a little and hugged you back in an awkward, nervous way. "Don't be so gay, dude."

You laughed and that was that. End of day one. You wondered what the rest of the year would be like. If you actually got to have it with them.

You take one last puff before calling it a night, wrapping yourself up in your freshly-cleaned everything.

"Please be there when I wake up. Don't make this all a motherfucking dream."

_**Der Clown wird seinen Sinn für Humor und Geist verlieren.**_

_**Er wird wissen, die harte Wahrheit.**_

_**Nicht alles kann lustig sein die ganze Zeit.**_


	2. Unfälle können passieren

**AN: I'm so sorry, people that read this! I have no computer anymore and no internet. I've had this written for a long time, but couldn't type it until today. I hope you enjoy it. It was hard to write. I brought up a lot of stuff from my past. And excuse any typos. I'm stealing McDonald's wifi so I have to be quick. Thank you all for reading! I adore you. *w***

* * *

You used to dread December. Everything about it made you cringe. That was probably whenever what happened to your mom went down, 'cause Dad always, always gets really drunk and tries to kill you if you're around him. That's when the mirror thing happened.

"Get her face off of that disgusting body of yours! You bastard! Get it off now! Unworthy piece of shit!"

You've never seen a single picture of your mother. Ever. Dad burned all of them and all of her belongings, save that mirror. You still don't know why he kept it for so long until he broke your face with it. Broken mirror, broken flesh, broken family. You suppose you must look a lot like her for him to do that to you. You have burn scars and whip scars all along the entirety of your back from him on Christmas for the past sixteen years of your life. No matter how old you are, he'd keep doing it. You laughed a little at the thought of him driving to wherever you lived to beat the shit out of you.

You get out of the shower, going about your school routine, when you step in front of the two walls of mirrors placed in the bathroom. You normally don't like looking at them, because you don't like looking at you. But you're curious as to what others see when they chat with you, and you cringe a little at the bony guy before you.

You have scars on your chest from cigarette burns when you were five 'til you were eight. There are knife scars on your stomach, the scars on your back from your father, the scars on your throat and wrists from suicide attempts, the ones between your toes from when you were on heroin, the ones on your arms and legs from aggressive sex, the ones on your face – your mom's face – and the ones in your heart and mind from everything else.

You chuckle sadly to yourself and shake your head. Who would wanna fuck someone paper-thin and torn the fuck up? You grit your teeth together and squeeze your eyes shut, unwilling to let out the sobs that you're choking on. You let out a gargled yell and punch the ugly motherfucker looking at you with a sound that you think is your heart breaking, but it turns out to be the mirror instead and your blood is everywhere. Red is everywhere. Oh, God – why do hands bleed so fucking much?!

You sit outside the school and play with the bandages covering the entirety of your right hand. You think you may have broken it, but no one will know. You won't go to a doctor. Doctors judge and hurt and prescribe, prescribe, fuckin' prescribe! You make a low noise in your throat and shut your eyes as you accidentally touch a knuckle. A couple of tabs of Xanax and three whole bowls got you through the routine. You're calm again, but you don't want to see your friends. You don't want them to know what you did. How can they even like you? Fuckin' miracle . . .

"Gamzee!"

You gasp loudly, almost choking yourself, and look up from your hidden (or not so, hm) seat on the icy ground, hiding your hand in your coat like a freak. You've been here two months already. They really like you. You really love them. You force a tiny smile at Karkat, his nubby little self half-running to you like you are his fucking shining star. He still doesn't smile much, but everyone knows you're his favorite. You don't have a clue as to why, though.

He stops a half-foot away from you and crosses his arms over his heaving chest. "What the fuck?" he asks just short of yelling. "Do you know how worried I—_we_ were? Tavros even started crying, assclown. Nepeta had stress hairballs, man! You're the one thing that remains static, Goddammit!"

You smile a little, but this hurts to hear. You don't want people all a mess because of you. Your eyes burn a little. "I'm sorry, bro," you say so, so quietly. "I didn't mean no harm . . ."

The shortest bro loses a bit of his fire at your lack of usual strange speech patterns that you seem to have traded for weak tones and an absence of swearing. He uncrosses his arms and sighs, kneeling right in front of you. "Are . . . Are you okay?"

You open your mouth to let him know you're fine, but all that comes out is a squeaky screech of a noise and you knit your brows together and try again. It's more of an "augh" than any real word. He stares at you, more worried with each attempt. You inhale sharply and try again. You hate this sound the most; it's the sound of someone trying not to cry. You hit the wall behind you in frustration and scream bloody fucking murder. Blood pours from your hand as if there's no barrier there and you sob into yourself and rock back and forth, telling yourself it's gonna be okay, but you don't believe it. So much blood. Why is there so much blood?

You're wrapped up in warmth and you wonder if you passed out again or maybe you're being put in a straight jacket because you're fucking batshit. You open your eyes, but everything's blurry and they burn from wind and new moisture. But you feel breathing on your ear, a tickle of much needed quantities, and hair on your cheek. It smells like coffee and vanilla with a little bit of mint. You love it.

You wrap your good hand around whoever's back and start crying all over again into its shoulder, feeling just terrible because you're probably ruining the thick turtle neck with tears and snot and spit, and that makes you cry more and you start spewing apologies as loud and coherently as you possibly can. People were staring the instant you screamed, and now the numbers are only increasing. You want to hide, to die, but the warmth and scent and small paps and rubs to your bony back make you want to live forever.

"Shoosh," it says, calm but a little shaky, as if it's trying not to cry, too. Your Karkat "You're okay. I won't let you go down again. I won't let anything hurt you. I'll protect you; don't worry. Calm down, Gamzee. Shoo-shoo-shoosh."

You _do_ calm down and you _don't_ worry. You still cling to him, the little devil, as you ride out the last of your sniffles and hiccups. You hide your face as you lift up off of him, and he instantly hands you a tissue. Hey, it's even one of the ones with lotion. You laugh a little and turn around so he can't see you blow your nose. Hearing it is bad enough. He pats your shoulders gently as he practically sits on your feet and waits for you to want to see him again.

"Better?" he asks, still wary and nervous. He's probably not used to comforting people, but he does a damn good job at it for someone so shut-off and hard.

You nod and stand up slowly, still high as giraffe pussy. Your right hand continues throbbing and bleeding and shaking like you have arthritis or something. You stare at it for a while and then look at the wall behind you. Your blood is splattered on it like graffiti warfare and you sneer at it and snort, shaking your head. You look up for the first time in a while and blink at the mob that formed around the both of you.

"You know, if y'all wanna suck my dick so bad, all ya have to do is motherfuckin' ask," you say snidely, spitting the words out with venom. They blush slightly as a whole and look away, nervously leaving the vicinity, looking back often.

Kitkatbar stands up and looks around him. Brief anger flashes upon his pretty, slightly-freckled face, but it melts fast as he turns back to you. Pity. He pities you so much, you poor bastard. You smile apologetically at him and he lowers his eyes to your hand. He takes it in his own and you're surprised it doesn't hurt. It actually feels . . . Nice.

He raises it to his face, which has gone red all over, shuts his eyes with a huff, and kisses one of your knuckles.

The surge of electricity that goes through you is not because of pain. Quite the opposite. You feel your face heat up and you want to pull back because you don't want him to be embarrassed, but you can't because your craving for gentle contact outweighs your morals. No one's _ever _touched you so gently and kind and . . . Loving before.

He kisses all of your knuckles and all of your fingers and the whole vastness of your large hand. When he's done (much to your disenchantment; you were almost asleep), he holds it to his chest and his heart is beating so, so, _so_ fast, and his face is so, so, _so_ red. He looks up at you, scared and anxious, and says, "Don't ever do that again."

You smile big and you want to cry all over again until you have no tears left, but you shut your eyes tightly and nod, and allow him to lead you to wherever he wants to take you right now.

He's driving you somewhere before you muster up the strength to ask him where you're going. His eyes narrow as he says, "The hospital in town."

Your whole body freezes save for mild shaking and you turn to him slowly. "W-what, bro?" you ask in stuttered nonsense that's hardly above a squeak.

He reaches over to you without taking his eyes off the road and caresses your knee in his small, warm hand. You never knew anything could be so warm. It calms you a little and he says, "Your hand is fifty shades of fucked up and needs to be _looked at_ at the very least."

The shakes start again and you remember the IVs and the way the doctors looked at you and poked your scars and open wounds and gave you so many drugs that kept you hazy as they did things with their fingers that you couldn't say no to. You grab onto his arm and it shakes his whole right side with the ferocity of your tremors. "K-Karkat, man, please don't make a motherfucker go on in there!"

He holds onto you tightly and glances at you sideways. "I'll be with you. If they even _look_ at you wrong, I'll kill them. Got it? I'm not big, but I can choke a bitch."

You ease up on him and grin a little. He makes you feel so safe and you believe him with all you are. Neither of you lets go of the other's hand.

He waits with you in a blank, white room full of blank, sorry people. You shake from time to time and he shooshes you and holds you as close to him as he possibly can. You're so much bigger than him, so the looks people give you could be because of that. Or the fact that you're both dudes. Gender doesn't really matter to you. You've been with guys and girls alike, but you've only been in one serious relationship.

You get called back and Karkat refuses to leave your side in a slew of a thousand expletives. They give up after a minute, much to your pleasure. You hold his hand tighter and give him a grim smile. He smiles back and pats your hand. They make him let go so they can check your pulse and temperature. Your average temperature is ninety-seven point three degrees Fahrenheit, but it's currently ninety-eight point nine. Not bad. Your pulse, however, is one sixty. That's not very right. The nurse mentions this and goes on to say something else, but your little terror steps in and tells her to go fuck herself and that you're here for your hand. She glares a little, but stays submissive and puts you both in a room to wait for assistance.

You fidget on the table and constantly look around you, loudly clacking your mouth jewelry together in attempts to stay calm. You have half a mind to bolt the fuck out of here, but Karkat slaps your leg lightly when he sees you eying the door.

The doctor doesn't take long to come in and has some idle chatter to make with you, but you don't say anything back. You can't. There's a chunk of bad memories and misery lodged in your throat and words cannot get past them.

Mr. Vantas stands up beside you and explains the situation with as many insults as he can muster. You thank all the gods that he's here with you, that you're finally not alone.

The doc nods thoughtfully and asks you to pull your shirt down some so he can check your heart and lungs. It's a routine, maybe protocol. They all do it. But you move your head left and right stiffly, eyes wide, body shaking violently.

"It'll only take a second," he says calmly and politely, but you don't trust him. How could you? "Son, are you on something?"

You look to your best friend and you can see yourself in his eyes. You're motherfucking terrified out of your mind. It's weak and pathetic. You hate that. You hate you.

You suck it up and pull down your turtleneck. Karkat makes a little noise, but you don't look at him. You just close your eyes and wait for the whole thing to be over.

After some tests and X-rays, they tell you that three of your fingers are broken and some bones are shattered. After a painful fixer-upper, you're left with a cast and a three hundred dollar bill. You pay upfront, though, because money is of no issue and you don't want Dad to know about this. Not in December.

Your best bro gets you some ice cream and it soothes your inner child. You realize you're not going back to school as he takes the sakura-lined road to your house. He opens the car door for you and allows you to fiddle with the locks of your front door without any mean comments and shoos you to go upstairs as he locks up behind you.

You lay down on your bed and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling as you finish your sundae. He's very sweet despite outward crabbiness. He opens your door and sets a bag on your bed that you didn't know he had.

With a rough sigh, he sits on your bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. You feel like an asshole. He has enough to deal with, you guess, without your ass causing drama.

"Sorry-"

"Take off your clothes," he says icily, cutting you off.

You stare at him for a while until he repeats his command, angrier than before.

"But . . . I don't wan-"

"NOW, ASSHOLE!"

Not his usual creative response, but it makes you jump and your heart snap into somehow smaller pieces. But you stand up slowly and close your door, locking it with a small click. He's not looking at you. His arms are crossed over his chest so tightly that it's a wonder he can even breathe. His eyes are narrowed to tiny slits, dark eyelashes just barely touching his cheeks. He doesn't want to see you, really, but he saw what was on your chest and throat. You know he did.

You release a shaky sigh. You don't want to do this. Not with him. Your eyes and nose burn a little as you take off your sweater. It's cold. You're always so cold. You chuckle a little, though you don't know why, and slip off your shoes. Next go the heavy pants that help mask how thin you really are. Your thumbs are inside the band of your boxers and you feel empty and broken and dirty and disgusting as you slowly pull them off with your heart pounding in your ears, drowning out any noise, real or fake, that you desperately _need_ to hear.

You don't look at him. You just raise your arms like you're about to be crucified and close your eyes. Your breathing is uneven and you bite your cheek to keep from making noise. There's a soft rustling in front of you and you can hear his muted padding of steps getting louder and louder. But you still don't look. You can't look.

A soft noise leaves your throat when his warm – hot – fingers run over the raised, white scars. He touches the ones on you chest, arms, stomach, shoulders, back, legs – all of them. Every piece of badness that's permanent on your flesh, his fingers run all along. But it doesn't feel bad. They're the first good touches you've felt in a long time.

Warmth passes over your face as he gently, almost motherly, pads along those big, scary scars. You look back at him now and he looks so sad, tears fill his eyes and are almost out and onto his beautiful, perfect face. You smile. You smile so big at how badly he wants to save you. You know he can't, but it's a sweet thought and you kiss his persed lips just as gently as he touched you.

He whole body tenses up, but he reciprocates. It's not lustful or sexual or devious in any way; it's a promise of protection on both sides, a deal that both of you are willing to die to guard the other, a thank you for caring.

He pulls back and looks at you with cheeks as red as his eyes. "This won't happen," he says softly, his thumb running over your neck again. "I won't let it. I abso-fucking-lutely refuse to let any shit-eating scumbag touch you like this. And you . . . Don't you fucking do it, either. I will . . . I'll fucking pap you so hard, so help me God!"

You chuckle a little and wrap your arms around him in a snug embrace. "Thank you, motherfucker. You're all sorts of good and kind."

He snorts against your shoulder and slaps your back softly. "Put your damn clothes back on, bitchcraft."

You haven't skipped school since you were fourteen, when you didn't want to feed into your stereotype anymore. You didn't like people being so disgusted and scared by you. But you didn't skip to shoot up in a dumpster. You skipped this time because you needed someone and they needed you. You really love him. So fucking much. He's your little angel . . . A feisty one, but still.

The stuff in the bag turned out to be medical supplies and makeup that he swore by that could hide scars. He lifted up his sleeves and showed you the cuts that ran all along both arms. His dad wasn't absent from his life; he was certainly there in all of the emotional and physical bullshit he put his son through.

You both talked until night came, sharing stories of the past and hopes of the future. He ran away from home multiple times, but felt bad because his dad's only an asshole when he drinks, and he only drinks because he's sad and lonely due to his wife dying in a house fire. She chose to save her son instead of herself.

"There's bound to be some resentment," Karkat said with a sad smile.

He stands on the porch telling you good night, and you pull him into a hug and thank him for everything.

"I love you, bro," you mumble into his shaggy hair. "I love you so motherfuckin' much."

You can feel him roll his eyes and chuckle. "Alright, Princess," he says lightly. "I need to go home. Be good. Oh."

He slips his hand into your pocket without warning, causing you to blush a little, and pulls out your phone. He types on it briefly and puts it in your hand.

"My number. Call or text any time. I'm here if you need me. Don't do something buttfucking retarded, okay?"

You smile and reply, "Okay, my prince."

He groans and shakes his head, pushing your shoulder a little.

Your best friend has only been gone an hour, but loneliness fills your soul and you decide to smoke a little to keep your chill. Funny how you didn't smoke the whole time he was here. Motherfucking crazy. Tomorrow's Saturday and Christmas is in two weeks, but "Holiday Break" starts on Wednesday.

You used to hate December. Now you're hopeful. You are not alone. You have friends. You have a best friend. He's almost as fucked up as you, but he takes it more to heart while you drown yours with herb. And you love that about him. Maybe Christmas will be good.

You're going shopping tomorrow.

Sweater over shirt, coat over sweater, scarf, mittens (ouch, hand still hurts), pants, socks, boots – good to go. You haven't driven in at least five months, so this is a little scary, but you gotta do it. You grab your keychain and head out the door, locking up tightly because without you, the house is always empty.

You drive to the shopping center going five under the speed limit. You started taking pills again, a habit that you'd given up years ago because they make you mean when you'd go a day without taking them and paranoid if you take too many. You let the weed counteract all that stuff. It's shameful and embarrassing, and you keep it to yourself. Driving slower makes you feel less shitty.

Walking around, you decide to get everyone two gifts: A joke one and a sweet one. You're especially obsessed with getting nice things for Tavbro and Karkitty. They're certainly more important. You know you love them both, but the love you hold for your little bull (he'd gotten his septum pierced a couple of weeks ago and, God, it is cute) is a tad more than friendship. Thinking about just holding his hand makes you blush. He's awful sweet. So, for him, you get platform boots, all the Disney movies you can find, and an adorable Peter Pan outfit because he'd mentioned it was his most favoritest thing ever in the history of life.

Karkat . . . You poke around the toy section for a while and find a large car and a stuffed cat, planning on sewing them together. You also buy a huge Kitkat bar, books on computer programming, romantic comedy movies, and a little card that sings, "You Are My Sunshine." That song used to make you cry so hard. You don't know why. But it's special to you and means a lot, so he better fucking like it.

You even get things for Eridan, Meangirl, and Greenlipsticklady, though you're sure they don't care for you all too much.

The last of the haul of Christmas presents is in your car (what a relief, too; it took hella long) when you hear a strange noise and a thud in the middle of the road. Greenlipsticklady has tears in her eyes and she's surrounded by stuff and holding her ankle. She tries to get up, but falls again with a huff. People stare, but just go about their business as if she doesn't exist. You think that odd, considering how pretty she is. Pretty people are easy to love and be kind to. That's one of the facts of life.

You lock your car and walk over to her quickly, holding out your hand. She knows you're there, but refuses to acknowledge your existence until she comes to terms with her current disability and lack of options and takes your hand in defeat. You prop her against your side as you pick up all of her things and ask where she's parked.

"Over there," she mumbles, avoiding your face. "Not too far . . ."

You put all of her things into her car and smile at her with genuine delight. Must be the seasonal joy. "Anything else, sister?" you ask, strumming your fingers on the hood of her jade green Lamborghini Veneno (wowza). She narrows her eyes at your hand, but sighs instead of kicking you in the crotch and telling you to fuck off. What a kind gal.

"No, that's it," she says in that pretty voice of hers while throwing her broken stiletto into the back. She reminds you of someone . . .

"Alright, then," you reply, opening the door for her like a motherfucking gentleman. "Glad I'm not the only motherfucker gettin' his holiday spirit on all up in here."

She chuckles a little and says something you can't understand as she gets in her car. You raise an eyebrow and she smiles and runs the pads of her fingers on your facial scars. "Mother was right about you. I didn't want to believe it. I'm sorry . . ."

That's it! "Motherfuckin' Maryam!" you yell with a giddy grin. "Your ma's my therapist!" Oooh, smooth. Let her know you're nutters. Good idea.

Porrim Maryam has been your therapist since you were twelve. It had to be over the phone for a while and you completely forgot she moved here a couple of years ago. She was the one who bought you clothes and the one who doesn't like for you to pay her for anything. She's like a mom to you. All the clothes you own are from her. It's not like you can't buy stuff on your own; she just insists on doting on you. Wow, Kanaya turned out damn fine. Just like her mother.

She offers you a seat and you take it because, shit, it's a Lambor-fucking-ghini, biatch. It's like the future all up in here. The two of you have nice chats about, well, everything. The stuff she bought is for Meanlady, Vriska. She's terribly in love with her, but Vriska isn't interested. Vriska isn't very nice, you learn, but you really can't help who you fall for.

"Okay, so at school, we don't know each other," Kanaya says to you as you get out of her sweetballs car. "I don't want Vriska mad at me . . ."

You nod and wish her luck and a good day and go on back home and shake and bake 'til Monday.

Karkat texts you Monday morning, asking if you're okay and if school's on the agenda. You smile and text back in your rather odd and creative way, "SuRe, MoThErFuCkEr. I'm ChIlL. JusT tAlKiNg To YoU aLl WeT aNd NaKeD. ;o)"

You can practically hear him smirk when he sends back, in his all-caps angry-looking quirk, "OH MY. DON'T FUCKING TEASE ME. OOPS SORRY. NOW I HAVE TO GO AND FUCKING JERK OFF. THANKS A LOT YOU SEXUAL DEVIANT."

"MaYbE I sHoUlD sEnD pIcS, bRo. EaSe YoUr ThInKpAn SoMe. S'aLl HaRd AnD tHrObBiN."

"ALRIGHT, ENOUGH, REOTARDO DICAPRIO. HURRY UP I'M RIGHT OUTSIDE."

You look out your window and sure as shit, he's there. Standing outside his car, looking up at you with a glare. You grin and wave and remember that you really are naked. You don't mind if he sees, though. Honestly, you kinda like it. Not in a sexual way; it's just nice to be so comfortable with someone enough for them to see all of you. He just rolls his eyes and groans, telling you to trade your birthday suit for more suitable apparel.

After going through the motions of the school ritual, you meet him outside and give him a friendly kiss on the cheek. His face goes red and he pushes you back, but you know he really likes it. You get in his car and buckle up, clinking your barbell against the bottom row of your teeth and giggling at your tiny dancer as he's driving. He's just so small!

"I'm five-two, asspie," he grumbles through clenched teeth, pulling into the school parking lot. It's not too shabby. No cracks and all the lines are well-defined, though that doesn't stop some kids from parking like shitheads. You recognize Kanaya's car instantly and smile stupidly. She was pretty nice. And pretty. Very pretty . . .

"Gamzeeee!"

You jump a little and almost slam your hand in the car door when you turn to look at whoever called your name. Your smile is instant and huge and you hold out your arms to catch the kid running toward you like the cheesefest romance scenes Karkat likes so much.

"Tavbro!" you yell back, picking him up and twirling him around in a circle as if he weighs nothing. He giggles and clings to your neck, letting his legs fly out behind him.

You hear Karkat scoff and get his bag from the car, slamming the door shut with a force quite mighty for his stature. You laugh and put Tavros down and pat his head.

"W-where were you?" he asks, staring at your hand. "Karkat, um, left to go find you and never came back. Were you really screaming and crying and punching walls?"

You blink at him for a bit, hazy mind trying to register everything, and rub your cast meekly. "Ah, somethin' like that, bro," you reply with a little chuckle. "But some motherfuckers like to all up and pry and exaggerate and stretch the truth. Don't pay them no mind."

"Did you and, uh, Karkat really make out?"

Your face goes hot and you bite your tongue in surprise. "W-wow. Them fuckers really did tell you some shit, huh?"

He seems fairly relieved and the two of you go about your business as usual. He spends a lot of time with Aradia now and you feel stabs in your gut when you see them laughing together. It hurts you more when they touch. What is this feeling?

The day is normal and nothing of interest happens until Music Theory. Ms. Lalonde slurs about how she had a favorite song when she was little. She's always . . . Drunk. And has to correct herself often and she mostly just plays 80's music the whole time and sleeps. She really ought to be fired.

"Any a yous guys had a falv-favorite tune?" she asks, one eye half-closed. "Huh? Cha wanna give me a sme-stem-sample?"

No one raises their hand, and Tavros even hides behind you a little in his desk. You smile sweetly at him and Lalonde takes it as you volunteering.

"C'mawn, A-plus! Give jus-us a listen!"

The entire room snickers around you and your face feels warm and you really don't want to do it. But the cute, encouraging look Tav gives you is enough to make you sigh and sit up straight.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," you start, voice cracking a little. God, this is stupid. Since when do you get embarrassed, anyway? Must be the pills. "You make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away . . ."

The boys laugh and name-call, the girls "aw," Tavros giggles and pats your shoulder, and Ms. Lalonde tells you that, "Yer a vet-verb-very sweet lil man."

Karkat laughs when you tell him about it in PE while you're throwing medicine balls to each other. You push the ball at him harder and he rolls his eyes.

"What do you care, buttdumpling?" he asks, stretching his back. "Lalonde is too shitfaced to use real words half the time and the kids are even more stoned than you."

True though that may be, you still feel silly about it. Talking to Karkat makes it better, though. Like most things.

Tavros gives you his number before you slip into Karkat's car. He says he wants to be sure he can contact you when you're not around so he knows you're okay. You smile and hug him and feel empty when he goes off and gets into Aradia's car, sans Sollux.

Karkat flat-out refuses to let you ride with anyone or anything else, and won't accept your gas money. You leave it in his bag anyway when he's not looking . He just ominously texts you, "Stop that," during the night and it makes you laugh because he's too nice and has so much pride.

Wednesday rolls around quickly and you take all of the presents to your car as Karkat pulls up with a quizzical expression. You leave his box of goodies in your bathroom closet.

"I'm driving," you say, pulling him to you as he gets out of his car. "Gonna be all sweet for you, bro. 'Tis the motherfuckin' season, after all."

His face contorts into one of pain and he gently pushes you off of him. He just sighs and gets into your car, looking around, raising his eyebrows in a way that says, "Wow, this isn't shitty at all, not like what I was expecting."

It bugs the shit out of you that he doesn't tell you what's wrong, but you don't press him because he doesn't put up with that kind of shit. You just pull in next to Kanaya's car, she and Vriska standing beside it, and take out two boxes from your back seat. Karkat just stays in the car and closes his eyes.

"Merry dear Maryam," you say in your silkiest voice. So suave.

She looks around with wide eyes and pink around her cheeks and points to herself. "M-me?"

"Yeah, sister. I gotcha somethin' real fucking nice. Here."

She takes the box and opens it carefully, Vriska peeping over her shoulders. She pulls out a chastity belt and her face goes pale while Vriska shakes with laughter beside her.

"There's more."

"Oh, i-is there?"

The poor, sweet girl reluctantly pulls away all of the packing peanuts and gasps when she sees terribly expensive cosmetics and purses that you got for her. "I don't know what to say . . . Thank you."

You smile and wrap one arm around her in a half-hug. "Any time, sister." You pass a box to Vriska with a grin and she scowls a bit but takes it, tearing it open like an animal.

"Oh, what the hell?" she yells, throwing the box of jumbo tampons at you with surprising force. You laugh loudly as she rips her way to the other gifts and stares down at the collection of crystal spiders. She has a weird obsession for arachnids. Her cheeks turn pink and she mutters something you can't understand, but she's still kinda scary to you so you just grin and get the rest of the presents out of the car.

"Little bro," you say softly, opening his door. "What's up? Get the motherfuck out here and get all up in the holiday groove. Last day 'til the seventh, c'mon."

He stares up at you tiredly and you want nothing more than to pick him up and squeeze him, but you can't because your good arm is full. Letting out a weak sigh, he nods and gets out and locks it for you, putting your keys in your pocket without a second thought. Yeah, something's so not right with him.

Everyone loves their gifts and has a good laugh at the gag ones. Even Eridan liked the box packed full with scarves. Terezi is less than enthusiastic when she opens hers. You'd gotten her Ace Attorney games and left a note that read, "I know your secret, sister. I won't tell no one. ;o)"

She just lifts her sweet shades and glares at you with her crazy eyes and cringes when you wink at her.

When they see Karkat alone, they practically throws themselves on him, asking him what's wrong and what he got. He looks at you like he's about to pass out from exhaustion and you just pull him out of the mob and say, "Don't worry your pretty motherfuckin' heads 'bout what he got. 'S none of your concerns. Now all up and enjoy this here holiday season before it's fuckin' over."

Karkat remains quiet for the rest of the day, speaking when only absolutely necessary. His voice is so quiet and hoarse and it breaks your heart a little more with every fragile word that leaves his lips. When you take him back to your place, he immediately goes to his car and you're afraid he's leaving. But he pulls out a wrapped-up box instead and an envelope and avoids your puzzled stare as you open the front door for him and watch him go up the stairs before you can even lock the door behind you.

When you get to your room, he's sitting on the edge of your bed, kicking his shoes off and staring at his feet as they sway back and forth against your bed post. You ask him if he's okay and he shrugs and narrows his eyes. The box and envelope are on your dresser, but you decide to turn on your stereo instead of poking around like a greedy dick.

He smiles a little because the last thing you listened to was Madonna and it is apparently not listed in your stereotype. You turn it up and wail to it loudly next to his face.

"Karkaaaat! I'm like a motherfuckin' viiiiirgin! Touched for the very first fucking time, bro!"

He snorts a little and pushes his shoulder against your chest. You turn the system way down and lay down beside him. "Sup, brother?"

His eyebrows furrow and he narrows his eyes again. "I'll just show you," he says quietly, standing up and pulling off his shirt with shaky fingers. His back is riddled with fresh scabs from being whipped, and both of his arms are wrapped in gauze from the wrists to the elbows.

You bite the corner of your mouth with an anger that has long been suppressed by a steady flow of "medicine." You forgot what loathing felt like. It feels bad. "Fuck," you hiss, sitting up on your bed slowly. "Your dad?"

He smiles grimly and rubs an arm. "And me. Because I'm the worst person any poor fuckass will ever meet."

A scoff leaves your mouth and you lean forward and gently grab him, pulling him to you and holding onto him like the world fucking depends on it. Still so warm. "You're not the worst. You're not even bad. You're my motherfucking best friend."

You feel him smile against your neck and he leans up to look back at you. You look very stern. Impressively serious in his magma eyes. And then he kisses you. And it's not like before. It isn't innocent or sweet. It's urgent and panicky and it scares the everloving shit out of you. You can't. You can't do this. Not with him. It's so wrong and terrifying and and and . . . You reciprocate. And you can feel his body relax some because he was so scared, too. You shouldn't. You don't want to. But . . . He needs it. And you'll do anything for him. So you deepen it and make it the best you possibly can because you want him to feel good just once. It's killing you. But you'd die for him. You promised.

He pulls back and looks at you again, nearly crying, blushing hard and panting a little. He didn't mean to. He's so scared and nervous and he doesn't really know how it happened or what the fuck should happen next. But he has a need. And it's screaming at the both of you.

You gasp a little as he adjusts himself on your lap, pushing himself down on you, a tiny noise coming from the back of his throat. You pull back a little, but he grabs your shoulders and looks at you so fucking desperately. You want to cry.

"Please."

No, no, no, no, no – you do it anyway. Against yourself and against sanity, you pull him closer and kiss him and touch him and push up into him. And it feels right and wrong and gross and wonderful and so Goddamn confusing and torturous. You hate yourself. But you love him. And he needs you.

It's instinct. With a twist in that you're actually _trying_ to make this good, the best, and you drag it out for as long as you can, pulling sounds from him that you never wanted to hear. But a little part of you does, you guess, because it gets you off, too. The rest of your parts glare at and want to kill that one sick bastard of a part of you that enjoys dry-humping your best fucking friend.

The stereo is muffled against his noise and the ones you try so hard not to make, but you make out the words, "La, la, la, la, la. Let's do somethin' that we shouldn't do . . ." Fuck you, Krewella.

Heartbeats and panting replace it in your ears and you're so close even though you don't want to be, but it's been a while and he's so gentle and loving in all he does and you don't know whether to cry or come or both. His body goes rigid against yours and he clings to your shoulders, gripping as tight as he can as he gives one last muffled cry muted by the fabric of your shirt against your chest. And you can't help it. Release finds you in a fit of mockery and repugnance and you're filled with both carnal relief and a feeling that you just ruined to one good thing in your life by soiling it with lustful _sin_.

He breathes heavily against your chest, sweat covering his exposed flesh, seeping into his wounds. "God-fucking-dammit," he mutters, voice cracking with regret and revulsion at his own self. You knew he didn't want to. He simply ran out of options.

You pat his back comfortingly, careful not to touch one of his lashes. "I-it's okay," you manage to purge out, but it's hard to believe when you feel the same disgust and self-hatred.

"I fucked up, right? I fucking ruined us like popularity ruins good shows! What the flying fuck is wrong with me? Why do I want to be so Goddamn miserable? God. Shit. I . . . I'm sorry! I don't . . . I didn't . . . Fuck!"

He unglues himself from you with dizzying speed, grabs his shirt, and makes for the door. But you get up just as fast and grab him, pulling him to you, careful of his back against your stomach.

"L-let me go, you sorry fucking excuse for a human being! You fucking shit-for-brains emo fucking faggot!"

The words sting a little, but you know he doesn't mean them for you. They're to himself with your name plastered over. You just rub his arms softly and press your cheek to his, murmuring words of comfort until he stops resisting and just leans back against you sobbing. You want to cry, too, but tears don't come and you decide that that's okay. It's okay. You're okay. He's okay.

He doesn't want to talk about it and you understand. You feel the same. It was like fucking your mom. You hold him to your lap once he's in new clothes, your clothes that make him look even smaller, the professional big spoon. You cut him off when he tries to apologize or demean himself and hand him the box. He lets out a humored "hm" at the literal carcat and shakes his head. But his breath stops in its tracks at all the nice, thoughtful stuff you got him and he laughs and cries a little at the card, standing up and throwing the envelope he got you. It's the same card.

Your heart is torn up and smashed ten times over, but this break is nice and tears of "Oh, God, why? It's too sweet!" come to your eyes, but do not fall. The other stuff is clearly hand-made decorations for your fairly blank room, movies, CDs, and Monopoly money to pay you back for gas.

You've always hated December. Maybe now, it isn't so bad. Just a little rough around the edges, just like you. And just a little messy.

**Manchmal ist die Morgendämmerung ist nicht so hell, wie alle sagen . . .**


	3. Betet für mich

It's June. Two weeks left and school's out. You're seventeen now, birthday was January 17. Nice little shindig. Your hand's all healed, but it still feels weird when you move it too much. Karkat checked out the mirrors and found solid concrete behind them, which explains why the damage to your hand was so extensive. He got them replaced for you, but you made him let you pay for it. Sweet little bugger. You're glad you get to finish the year with your friends. Even Vriska seems okay with you, and Eridan can be nice when he wants. Oh, yeah. And you have a boyfriend.

It was at the New Year's part at Sollux's house. Pretty nice place. Everyone was drunk except you and Tavros. You were high as usual, and Tav is simply too good a kid to do "illegal things." Hell, even Karkat let loose – he took his shirt off on the dining room table and flung it at Terezi. Granted, he was wearing a long-sleeved undershirt, but hey. Props to him for trying. Terezi came out of the I'm-Not-Blind closet, probably due to your little note on her Christmas present implying she could see just fine, and people were surprised, but too drunk to really give two shits. She also bitched you out, called you immature and reckless and a bad influence on Karkat, and told you that she wanted to hatefuck the shit out of you. You just laughed and told her to come by any time; you'd be up for it.

But then it hit midnight and the strange tradition of kissing someone at that oh-so-crucial moment sunk in and couples kissed, and the singles just flocked around each other, snogging whoever they could get a hold of. Karkat turned deep red when Terezi tried to kiss him, but pushed her away in time for her to only get his cheek. He would only let you kiss his soft, unsullied lips. And it was a sweet, gentle thing, unsloppy like the other desperate, drunk kids in no committed relationships. He tasted like vodka and bitch-beer.

Tavros walked up to you slowly and unsteadily. He still got so nervous around you sometimes and you couldn't pinpoint why. You thought you'd gotten past that a while ago. The two of you had been texting a lot, every waking hour unless something was going on in which the phone wasn't the top priority. You also called each other frequently and hung out a couple of days a week. Never at each other's houses, though. Especially not yours. Only in public places. You wondered if maybe he didn't trust you enough to let you into his private life, but then you seemed pretty introverted yourself. Shady bastard. One time when the two of you had been discussing hanging out and laying down some sick beats (which was something you never thought he'd be interested in, this human disease called rapping), you suggested getting fucked up and making out. He had very little to say to that. Serious as you were, you played it off as a little joke.

He curled and uncurled his fists to comfort himself in the dark living room of the Captor house, lit only by strobe lights and glowsticks. You smiled down at him and patted his head, asking what was up. After a good minute, he cleared his throat and asked if it would be okay for him to kiss you. And of course it was. You liked him for so, so long, but let's face it. You're totally a piece of shit. And as much as you wanted to make this kid yours, your morals stood in the way, telling you to even go as far as to stop talking to him so you don't ruin the poor guy. But here he was, offering himself to you like religious freaks to a volcano. You felt your face instantly burn up and your jaw clench tightly with anxiety. You'd never been so scared to kiss someone before. How embarrassing. But you got over it, leaned down, and pressed your lips to his so softly, you may as well have not done anything. When he pressed back, eyes shut so tightly, face like a tomato, you eased up a bit and parted your lips a little more. It was so awkward and clumsy and shaky and adorable and perfect and you loved every motherfucking thing about it. Even if, deep down, you felt it was wrong. You remembered what you did to Karkat, how impure you are, how dirty you made him. And you felt all sorts of terrible because your conscience told you that you just made him filthy, too, and he couldn't even defend against such filth.

But when it was over, and he smiled at you so genuinely and lovingly, you couldn't help it. You had to have him. You bent down again, kissed his cheek, and said, "Tavbro, I'm so in lesbians with you. Would you all up and become my boyfriend? It'd mean an awful lot to a poor fucker like me."

And he made the cutest little squeak you've ever heard and nodded a little, clutching your shirt collar tightly. "Y-yes, Gamzee," he breathed out. "I've, um, liked you for a really long time. So, yes. Yes, yes, yes."

And you'd never been any fucking happier at that moment in your life. Shit only got better, too. And that party was hella fun. Even the part where Sollux and Aradia banged so loudly in the closet didn't seem to damper anyone's mood. Tavros got super embarrassed, Aradia being his best friend and all, but he still managed to giggle at it and have a good time. Still, he wouldn't let you drive him home, and you wouldn't let him see your place, either. He took a bus, you supposed, and you drove your dumb ass, and Karkat's drunk ass, back to your place at around five in the morning and girled out until you both passed out after another hour of romcom nonsense.

It's been five months of utter perfection between you and your lovely boyfriend. No one's said the L word yet, but you talk all the time and kiss when you can. But you're quite afraid to touch him anywhere under his clothes. You know he wants more – fuck, you do, too – but both of you are fairly embarrassed by your bodies and you're actually quite shy about doing anything sexual with him. You don't know why. Maybe because you really, really, _really _like him. Like, love him, even. You fucking love him so much. Any minute now, you'll probably spew that out to him in as many ways as you can manage.

You plan something snazzy for the day. You decide that you're done being a vagina; you're gonna get down to it. But more romantic than that. You pick him up from his cute, little house in the cutest neighborhood with the cutest people and the cutest lawn gnomes. You walk in like you own the place, practically living there these days, and say good morning to his mom. She smiles up at you, penny-colored eyes alight with a mischievous glow that makes you want to see what's going on in her pretty little head. She tells you to sit your butt down because she's almost done making breakfast. Tavros comes bounding down the hall with such childish innocence that you almost feel bad for putting your mouth on his, and feel awful for what you're going to do with him today. He wraps his arms around your neck and kisses your cheek softly, enough for his mom not to see or hear, and bids you a good morning. You smile and rub your cheek on his and tell him the same. His mom calls you two over as she places your favorite, French toast, on some plates on the round, glass table in the center of the kitchen. The house isn't terribly big, three bedroom, two bath, kitchen that merges seamlessly into the living room, but it's friendly and makes you feel like you belong. His mom does, too. She likes you, how you are with her precious baby boy, but she dislikes how thin you are. You can never say no to anything she makes for you, not that you'd ever want to. She's just too sweet. Just like Tav.

The day you met her, you were so motherfucking nervous. In the only other relationship you've ever had, the only reason you met her parents was because they were your dealers. But this was so much different. The lady doesn't drink or smoke or do drugs – straight-laced like her little boy. You tried to convince your boyfriend that she wouldn't like you and that it would be better if you never got into meeting parents, and he just smiled and patted your back softly.

"I like you," he said cutely, all bubbles and rainbows. "A-a whole lot. She, uh, she'll like you, too. I promise."

And, ah, God. You can't say no to such a perfect bundle of adorable. So you pulled up to his house after school, some time in March, with him reassuring you the entire way, and felt something cull your anxiety when you took in its features. White picket fence, yellow and orange and pink roses on both sides of a clean, three-step porch made of wood and stained a bright white. The grass was cut short and was greener than politicians. The outside was a rose color with a dark brown roof and the doors and windows were decorated with small fixtures and animal attire. This was a home. It was so beautiful. You almost cried when you saw the humorous welcome mat reminding you to wipe your paws, and blushed terribly when Tavros laughed at you actually doing as it said and wiping your feet off. You didn't have much bud to get you through it, shown clearly by your desire to run and hide, but it was Tavros and his home and his poor, widowed mother. And he's different. He's good. So they all must be, too, right?

You wrapped your arms around his waist as he unlocked the front door, placing your head atop his fluffy, black mohawk, enjoying the breeze and the pretty noise it made with the wind chimes hanging from the hooks on the sides of the door.

"Thanks, Tavbro."

He just nodded absently and patted your arms, opening the door and tilting his head toward the diabetes-causing sugary sweetness that was his decorated entry room. The Shoe Room, he called it. Oh man, was it cute. Polished wood floor, leading to a gray-carpeted hallway full of pictures of baby Tav and works of art and wooden signs with inspiring phrases hanging on the cream-colored walls – it made you smile so big and stupidly, anyone would assume you were either handicapped or having a stroke. Tavros groaned dramatically as you hopped on in and aw'd obnoxiously at his pictures, looking back at him and pointing at the one of him maybe two years old, riding on a giant rubber ducky in a metal bath basin like it was his mighty fucking steed into Mordor.

"Alright," he said, his face crimson as he pulled you away from the epicness that was his baby self and down the hallway to the kitchen where a woman, about forty and shorter than him with light brown hair and tanned skin, was staring at a book propped up on a marble counter top with a finger on her chin and a hand on her hip, her copper eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Moooother," he sang out, letting go of you and bouncing to her with his arms out.

She turned around and smiled big, opening her arms to catch her son in a hug. "Aw, baby!" she cooed, squeezing him and placing a kiss on the tip of his nose. "How was school?"

He giggled and pulled back, holding her hands loosely. "It was great! We made, uh, little 3D stars in art. I put them in that jar I made last week – the stained glass one – so you can put it in the window here and it'll make pretty colors pop out. C-cool, huh?"

She put a hand on his cheek and smiled affectionately. "Very cool, honey. Oh! Is this . . . ?"

His face turned red and he walked her over to you, smiling softly. "Um, this is Gamzee, Mom."

She narrowed her eyes again, intense and critical, looking you up and down to get a first taste of who you could turn out to be. She was the fucking master. You weren't jack shit. However, it did make you feel like you were about to release a torpedo from your bum and cry in shame, you unworthy sack of ass-vomit.

"Uh," you mumbled, feeling your face go cold and numb, as well as your hands, her gaze boring into you like worms to an apple. "H-hi, miss. I don't know what Tavbro has said-"

"Jeez, you're huge!" she breathed out at last, looking up at you with a huge grin and the mischief in her eyes that you've come to adore. "Maybe it'd break the curse of shortness in this family if you get my son pregnant."

"M-MOM!" her son blurted, turning to you quickly and shaking his head. "I n-never said I wanted to get pregnant by you, I swear!"

You stared wide-eyed at them for a while and then tilted your head back to look at the ceiling, letting out the breath you'd been holding. You chuckled softly and said, "Oh, thank God. I thought you were gonna mantis me and cut my head off. You have no idea how glad I am that you're not normal."

Now the nervousness and unfamiliarity is but a sweet memory, and you love being here. Tink, his mother, is as sweet as can be. No doubt she's been told of what your life is like, and she goes out of her way to make you feel like you're not alone and sometimes you wonder if you're stepping into incest territory because she's like a mother to you, too. You love her like one. Or how you think one should love a mother, never having one of your own to remember. Certainly isn't romantic. She always makes you breakfast when you pick up her son in the mornings, and you two chat it up until Tavros gets done getting ready and then the three of you are like a picture-perfect family. She seems to have taken in Aradia as well, having nothing but nice things to say about her. You don't know the girl with eyes almost as red as Karkat's, but you feel like she's a nice gal, just based on how Tink and Tav speak of her. Apparently, she's a bit nerdy, too. Her and Tavros play a whole mess of video games and even LARP together. It's adorable. Her LARPing outfits are hand-made and well-made and gorgeous. You know that, even if you have absolutely no interest in fashion. Or LARPing. But it's cute on them.

Tink always gets mad when you help her clean or cook. You do it anyway, though, because you love her and want to show that you appreciate all she's done for you. She looked like she was about to cry when you mowed and trimmed the foliage for her. You don't even do it to make a good impression or kiss her ass; you generally want to help her.

"So," she begins today, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in her hand. You look up at her and raise your eyebrow, twirling your chunk of French toast in a puddle of syrup. "Why do you always wear long sleeves and pants, no matter the weather?"

You see your boyfriend look at you curiously from the corner of your eyes and you sigh and put your fork down gently. "I'm always cold," you say quietly, staring down at your mostly-empty plate. And that's not a total lie. You are.

"Hm, I dunno. You did yardwork in a sweater. What's up with that, Stringbean?"

"Mom."

Tavros's stern voice makes you jump a bit. You've never heard him sound so dominant or serious before. You stare at him with wide eyes and shove the last of your breakfast into your mouth like a gluttonous cow.

"Don't be a pester pigeon."

"I'm not," she defends, taking a sip of her coffee to hide her grin. "I'm simply being a concerned cauliflower."

"More like a bugging Beethoven."

"And I'm an awkward apple," you cut in, getting up and washing your dishes despite Tink's protests.

Your boyfriend laughs a little and does the same, saying, "Well, uh, we'd better go now. Love you, Mom."

She gives him a tight hug and you smile a little and go to leave, but she stops you in your tracks by holding onto your bony wrist and flips her long hair out of her soft, slender face. "Where do you think you're going?"

You gasp a little as she pulls you into a warm embrace. She's soft and delicate against you and smells wonderful in every way. You slowly wrap your arms around her shoulders and close your eyes. "I-"

"Don't wanna hear it. You're family, Gamzee. You sweet boy."

You hold onto her tighter and sniff back tears. "Thank you."

She holds onto you just as tight and nods. "I love you, baby."

"I love you, too . . . Mom."

Moms are nice. You lost your first chance with one before you even knew how to shit on a toilet. It's a good start to the day. They're warm and kind and gentle and good at giving you love and care. Or maybe it was just Tav's mommy who was so wonderful. But the rest of the day is nice, too. You spend your Art class thinking about what you're planning when school's over, giving your peanut butter man sneaky looks and wiggly eyebrows, much to his curiosity and fear. When he asks what you're doing, you simply mutter, "You."

School is over before you know it, and you run out into the parking lot and give your best motherfucking friend the best motherfucking hug ever. He lets out a big oof when you crush him to you and stares at you like, "What the fuck, dude?"

What happened with him doesn't really matter anymore. It _did _happen and you can't take it back, but you still love him to pieces and wouldn't trade him for the world. You feel horrible sometimes because when he sees you with Tavros on some days, he looks like someone just punched him in the throat and he quickly looks away and rushes on. He doesn't tell you anything about it, though, and you still hang out when Tav can't. But that hurts you, too. You don't want him to feel like a rebound or consolation prize. You don't press him for information on the subject out of respect, but you let him know all the time that he can tell you anything and everything. You do love him. So much.

"Makin' motherfuckin' miracles today, bro," you say into his ever-fluffy hair. He pushes you off of him and shakes his head with a disgusted look.

You laugh and pat his head, and he smiles and pats your hand, but still looks a little unhappy. "Good luck, then, shitface," he mumbles, putting your hand to your chest and walking back to his car with a sad wave.

"Where are we going?"

You turn around to see your little lovebull clutching his satchel to his chest anxiously with the cutest smile ever spread across his face. Smiling back, you tousle his little fluff of hair and say, "Somewhere all sorts of special, Tavbro."

He doesn't question you even as you pull into the park that's about a mile from your house. It's bright and green and sunny, and just cool enough that you can wear your jacket comfortably. You pop open your trunk and pull out a blanket and a basket full of food that Tink helped you make (bless her heart). Taking his hand, the two of you walk a little way out and you decide that the weeping willow near the back corner of the park is a good spot to set up this little picnic. Lookit you, all romantical and shit. Savvy.

"W-wow, Gamzee," the little guy says as you sit down and place the food all around. "This is really, um, sweet of you."

"Like motherfucking sugar," you reply with a smirk, patting next to you on the blanket. "Now won't you all up and dine with me?"

The food is, thankfully, pretty damn good. But you lack the stomach capacity to eat very much, even with his mom fattening you up a bit. He says he's full soon, anyway. So you pack up the leftovers to save for when you get the munchies. Inevitably soon, after Tavros has left. He lifts up his sleeves to help pack the stuff up, and you always forget how toned he is. He isn't bulky or ripped, but he's moderately defined. Shocking, you guess, due to his sweet nature and shy personality. People assume too much or too little of the two of you, you swear. You could be labeled as anorexic to some. You're a little toned here and there, but mostly just bony. You'd be even skinnier if it wasn't for Tink. She's not pleased with your progress, but it's a start.

Tavros comes up behind you and gives you a hug as you pack the blanket and basket back into the trunk of your car. You smile and rub his hand affectionately.

"I wanna take you somewhere else," you murmur, turning around and bending down to place your forehead against his. "It's quiet and lonely and a little scary. But I think it's because it hasn't met you yet."

He giggles a little and holds your hands. "And . . . Where might that be?"

"My house."

He's never even been down the road to your house. You've been reluctant to show him anything about it. It's big and nice, but cold and dark and feels like prison. Being the passive type, he hasn't questioned why you haven't shown him your house. You don't call it home. His house is your home. This is just a building structure in which you sleep.

"Woooooow," Tav says airily. "Th-this is where you live?"

You step out of the car and open his door for him, holding out your hand. "Living is a relative term," you say back, closing the door behind him and locking it with a honk. "But I guess so. S'where I crash. Mostly on the third floor, though. The second's more like a motherfucking barrier. Need all sorts of barriers, I suppose. But I clean every-fucking-thing and make sure din-din's there if Dad's home. S'okay. Anyway, go on up the stairs to the third floor. My room's at the top of them."

He nods nervously and goes on without you as you lock up and put the food in the fridge. You're suddenly very self-conscious about your body and you wonder if you really should try to "make a move" or not. Dilemma, dilemma, dilemma. You cleaned everything spotlessly and your room doesn't smell like weed, but then there's you. You look like shit, bro.

Before you know it, you're locking your bedroom door and humming along to your stereo as Tavros looks around, asking you what some things are and their stories behind them. You laugh a little when he comes by your corner of kush and asks what your bongs are. You have three different ones, but you prefer your glass pipe. It's a little classier, you think.

"Why's it all black?" he asks, turning the pipe over in his slender fingers.

"Years of burnin', bro. Have you ever seen one before?"

He shakes his head and puts it back down, coming over to you while wiping his hands on his pants. "Doesn't seem very sanitary . . ."

"Better than needles."

He blinks at you as he sits down by your side. You sigh and lay down with a thud and close your eyes. Maybe you shouldn't even bother. You don't want him wasting his first time on a piece of shit like you.

He presses his lips to yours softly and whispers, "So, what about dessert?"

Fuck. Maybe you should.

You reach up and take his face in you hands, pulling him closer to you. He gets the hint and gets on top of you, pressing himself as close to you as possible. He gasps when you grab his ass and force his pelvis against yours. Ah, but you're getting too carried away. You tone it down a bit and pull back to look him in the eye.

"Tavbaby," you say, caressing his face in your hand. "Are you sure? I'm a no-good motherfucker and virginity's a gift that you can't take back. I don't want you all up and hatin' me for-"

"Shut up," he says smoothly, pressing a finger to your lips. "I know. I had sex ed. Gamzee, I . . . I l-love you."

And here you thought you'd be the first one to drop the L-bomb. You smile and quietly reply, "I love you, too. But that don't mean we have to bangarang to prove it. I mean, yes. I would love nothing more than to have you under me, all sweaty and blushin', crying out my name as I fuck you deeper and deeper, biting up on your neck and shoulders so all those motherfuckers out there know that I fucking climbed Mount Tavros and made it my little bitch and popped its cherry and had it fucking writhing underneath me with pleasure."

His face is so red that you're expecting steam to come out of his ears. He's gripping your shirt tightly and staring at you with plate-wide eyes. You swear there's something pressing against your hip bone.

"Uh," you continue sheepishly. "But, heh, we don't gotta do none of that. Just so . . . Ya know . . ."

"That," he starts in a small whimper. "That just made me w-want it more. Climb this m-mountain."

You stare at him for a while and then start laughing like an idiot. "God, we're too fucking retarded to do this."

He laughs, too, and nods. "Yeah, really. What's wrong with us?"

You push him down gently and kiss him softly and sweetly. "Tav . . . I'll take that challenge. And place my motherfucking flag on your peak."

"Oh, God. Stop. Please."

But then you remember what you look like and sit up quickly, looking up at the purple and green ceiling. With a sigh, you close your eyes and ask, "Hey, bro? What do you think of scars?"

You can feel him looking up at you quizzically, but you feel too embarrassed to look back down. "You, uh, mean your hand?"

With a sad smile, you shake your head and mutter, "Don't freak out, please."

You unzip your jacket and toss it to the floor. You grab the bottom of your shirt and finally look down at him apologetically, pulling the shirt over your head and onto your jacket. His eyes are wide. Really fucking wide. You stand up and turn around so he can see your back, too.

"It's – _I'm_ – really fucking ugly."

He chuckles softly and you turn to look at him. "You're not ugly. You survived. And that's the most beautiful thing I can think of."

With a sad smile, you walk on over to him and go back to your place above him. Your face is hot, probably red, as he cups it in his hands. "I really do love you, Tav."

He smiles and hm's. "I really do love you as well, Gamzee." He kisses you so gently, it makes you melt inside.

You've had sex before. A lot. Most of it, though, you were high as fuck. Sometimes, when you were indulging in the needlework, you actually did it _to_ get drugs. In all that promiscuity and iniquity, however, you never did it with someone you liked so much. The ex was good to you and all, and you really liked her and cared about her, but you didn't love her. No. Not like Tavros.

He's naked and panting as your fingers slide up and down him skillfully. You're going to make sure this is the absolute best thing ever. And the times after, too. You smile at the thought of giving him this again and again. His face is so pretty: red, sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead. You want him to keep that face. You lower your mouth from his to his neck, down to his chest, then his stomach, his hips, and finally, with a little chuckle, you run your tongue up his shaft slowly – _agonizingly slow._

Which gives you an idea.

"Just a second," you mumble, reaching over him to your dresser. Aaaand there they are. You unscrew the top ball from your barbell and screw on a rubber cooshcoosh-looking thing just enough so it won't fall off.

He stares up at you with wide, innocent eyes and you smile and kiss him before going back down. You tighten the accessory and laugh a little when he jumps at its buzzing. Soon, though, his anxiety melts away in a series of moans as you take him in, swirling your tongue all around with your vibrating bead. Why didn't you think of this earlier?

"Ah, G-Gamzee," he gasps out, grabbing at your hair tightly. "F-fuck. M-maybe you should s-stop, I-"

"Mm-mmh," you cut him off. Yeah, you'll show 'im. You take him in deeper until every inch of him is in your mouth. That gets him to shut up. At least, with protests.

The only time you've ever heard more expletives is when Karkat got bitten by an ostrich your first and last time at the zoo together. You didn't even know this kid had it in him to spew such vulgar language.

"Shit, G-Gamzee," he whines, backing his hips up hard. "Y-you shouldn't- I'm gonna-"

He tries so hard to pull back but you don't let him and he moans and gasps as you swallow all he has to offer you. You chuckle a little and lick your lips – he must eat a lot of fruit.

You crawl back up to him with a small smile. He's covering his face with his hands and mumbling apologies over and over and over, saying something along the lines of "should've held it in."

"Now don't get all up and sobstory on a motherfucker," you purr, pulling his hands off his slick face. "That was kinda my goal, ya know. I ain't done just yet, either."

He stares up at you with his amber eyes boring into your own strangely-violet ones. His are as wide as a McDonald's regular, his face all cute and flushed. You feel a little shitty and ask if he's still willing to sell his soul to the devil, otherwise known as you. He nods nervously and looks away. "J-just be gentle, please."

"I wouldn't make a damn thing painful to you if I can help it, Tavbaby."

Reaching over him again, you pull out a small bottle of personal lubricant. It's fairly full, having not had sex since moving here and not really getting handy with yourself, either. He knows what it is and shakes a little with anxiety, excitement, and fear. You talk him through it, calming him down a little because knowing about things make some fear die down. The unknown is a scary bitch.

You place your left hand by his head on the bed while your other hand slowly, slowly slips its middle finger into him. He lets out a low hiss and clings to your arm and shoulder. You murmur words of comfort into his ear, kissing as much of him as you can as you add another finger. He squeezes his eyes closed and cringes, groaning between his clenched teeth. You ask him if he's okay and he nods and holds onto you tighter.

"Good God, fucking – augh!" he growls against your chest when you add a third and final digit. You tell him you're sorry and that you have to because he's a virgin and you're not exactly itty-bitty down there. You swear your shoulder is bleeding due to his Iron Maiden grip on it.

You run your free hand gently on his face, stroking his cheek as you do your best to calm him down. You don't think you've ever popped a cherry on a sober person before. They were too high to feel it, really. Your first time hurt so fucking bad. Then again, you didn't want it and your eleven-year-old body wasn't exactly able to accommodate a full-grown man. Especially dry and forceful. Hell, even doing everything right would've hurt. You were a fucking child. That almost makes you stop, but he refuses to let you and swears it isn't so bad. Little trooper.

Deciding that that's good enough, you reach over him one last time and get the bottle and a condom. He stares at you and lets out an "Oh shit" when you slide off your boxers. You weren't kidding about being no tater tot. Your ego swells a little at his reaction and you chuckle your thanks as you put a little lube on yourself and roll on the condom. You lube that up nicely, too, and position yourself above him and ask one last time if he's sure he wants to go through with this.

Rolling his eyes, he grabs both sides of your face and gives you a deep kiss, pulling your hips down with his legs. "C'mon," he whispers airily. "Claim this ass."

Well, that was unexpected. And enough for you to throw the thought of backing out straight to hell. You grin and nod a bit, taking a hand and guiding it where it needs to go. You push it in a little and he goes tense against you, wrapping his arms and legs around you tightly.

"I know, I know," you hum, kissing his forehead lightly. "Ya gottta relax, bro. It'll get better. Promise."

He nods and huffs out the breath he was holding. You give him mad props for doing his best to ease up around you. You push in more and more until, after what seems like forever, all of you is inside of him. You kiss his face all over and let him know how amazing he is and he relaxes more and tells you he's ready to keep going.

After a little while, the pain on his face and in his voice is replaced by and expression and noises of pleasure. You know what you're doing – damn well – and you pull out all the stops to make him feel fan-fucking-tastic. You pump him along with your thrusts and it doesn't take long for the both of you to see stars and find pure ecstasy in each other.

You pull out of him and rest for a bit before deciding you're all gross-feeling and ask if he'd like to have a not-really-sexy-but-more-cleany shower with you.

Man, you really are dumb.

Last day of school. The two weeks flew by so fast. You've been so motherfucking happy and the days flow into each other so smoothly, it's all just perfect. You and Tavros have done it a few more times, each time better than the last. But you'll always think of that first time as the most special moment in your life. You're actually considering asking him to marry you. His mom supports it. She thinks you're perfect for him. And that makes you all sorts of motherfucking happy.

Karkat shows up in your driveway as you fold the brochure for engagement rings and stuff it in your pocket. You practically float down to him because life is just great. You've never been so good. You're finally where you want to be in life. Although you haven't heard from your father in a while. You can't decide if that's good or bad. You know he comes home sometimes, but he doesn't attempt to see you. Oh, well. He's old news. You don't even need dope or pills to feel high. You do them anyway, but still.

You're feeling all kinds of playful and giddy. Tavros is riding with Aradia this morning to have what you feel like calling "girl time." He needs to get his chill on, too. You like the girl, anyway. She's playful with her morbidity. She's pretty cool. And her and Sollux's relationship makes you happy inside. Their depressing words are said so creatively and in such goofy ways that it's not even harsh anymore. They were simply made for each other. But everyone needs a break every once in a while.

Mr. Grumpy here is in need of some company, you think, so you climb into his car and fill his bubble with some clown-ass shenanigans. You bat at his air fresheners hanging from his mirror, then his ear buds around his neck, then his face –

"Jesus titfucking Christ!" he yells, smacking your hand away. "I'm trying to drive, cock mongler. You want me to crash? Huh?"

You giggle a little and make your fingers Can-Can from his shoulder to the top of his head. You even provide music. "Sorry, bro," you purr. "I'm just really excited. First time I ever got some motherfuckers to call friends that are actually friends. First fucking love. First last day of school with everything goin' all sorts of right."

"Yeah, well, play with yourself then. I'm not dying because you're happy. Selfish taint-sniffing cum stain."

"Oh, you hurt me! Cut me deep, best fucking friend!"

He smirks a little and shakes his head. You know he loves you. You don't have to hear him say it. But you want him to know you adore him and are thankful for his camaraderie. So you tell him all the time that you love him. He probably doesn't believe it. But he doesn't reject it anymore and tell you how shitty he is. He just smiles and lets it slide. He only smiles about it when he thinks you're not looking. But you always see. And it melts your insides. He's such a lovely person, to his freckled cheeks and nose bridge to his small, soft feet that he allowed you to put nail polish on. You made it match yours: bright yellow with little smiley faces. You're sure no one has even seen his feet before, aside from himself. He shows you and tells you things that he keeps from everyone else. And that is a motherfucking miracle to you. You can't imagine your life without it. He's your rock. And he better fucking know that.

"I love you, Kitkat."

"I know, Gamzee . . ."

He stands by his car to chat it out with Kanaya, who looks a mess and could definitely use some consoling. Karkat's good at helping others. He loves his friends. They know he cares, even if he's an ornery asspie. Tavros texted you that he was next to your lockers so you go to see him in a good-ass mood. Nothing can bring you down today – except that. Vriska making out with your boyfriend on your locker with a hand going down his pants sure does sour your day. They both look at you. She grins. He freezes completely. You smile and turn right the fuck back around and speedwalk out of there.

"G-Gamzee! Wait!"

And she laughs. She fucking laughs her evil witch cackle. What a bitch.

But you don't wait. You can't. You can't even breathe. Your beautiful world gets replaced by one full of hideous thoughts and rotting feelings. Everyone is ugly. Everyone is a piece of shit. Except Karkat. Your Karkat. You rush out of the school, hitting the door so hard that it cracks on the brick wall of the building. You don't care. Fuck this place. All you need is your best friend. You flat-out run to the parking lot where Karkat's talking to Nepeta. You wrap your arms around him and beg quietly for him to unlock his car so you can get away. You don't want to see Tavros. And you'll fucking _kill _Vriska if that little bitch comes near you. Nothing is yours. You can't be happy.

"W-what? Gamzee? Gamzee!"

"Is he okay?" Nepeta asks, putting a hand on your back that is so, so hunched over from leaning down into Karkat's beautiful, warm arms, your head glued to his shoulder as you attempt to hold back tears. "Gamzee? What's wrong? Purr-ease tell us right meow."

"Why do you have to be so motherfucking cute all the time?" you yell, heaving against the only person that gives a shit about you. "Makes me feel all sorts of shitty when I can't tell you stuff!"

She seems a bit miffed and settles for hugging you before leaving you with Karkat.

"Take me home," you mumble against his collarbone. "Please. _Please, Karkat_."

You don't want to cause a scene. But you can't keep your imminent sobbing under control for very long because what you saw in there was way more traumatic than waking up in a muddy ditch with blood coming out of more than a few orifices. Emotional trauma is such sweet bullshit. You feel bad again because you're afraid you're ruining another of his shirts with tears and snot and spit, but he doesn't mind. People start to gather. He bares his teeth and growls at them, flipping them the bird and guiding you into the car like you're a small, helpless infant. You love him.

He gets in and starts it without a word to you, honking at the nosy motherfuckers around you that you only know are there because he's screaming at them to get out of his way or he'll have no problem splitting them in half with his new tires. You curl up into yourself and hide your face. Pathetic pussy.

You really want to laugh at his creative, eloquent insults, but you can't. You don't feel anything. You don't even hurt anymore. Everything's numb. You don't know if the pain is worse or not. Karkat leans over and buckles you in, and you look up in time to see him stare down at you with so much compassion that you want to break down and throw up every emotion you've ever had. It hurts that you hurt him. He reaches into your pocket to hand you your phone that had been vibrating nonstop since you first clung to him this morning.

"Throw it away," you whisper monotonously.

He sighs and just turns it off. He's a fabulous multitasker. Not once have his eyes left the road. "At least tell me how you fell from Cloud Nine to Satan's asscrack."

"Please just take me home." It came out so pitifully. You're pathetic. Get over it. You saw it coming. He realized you're trash. Finally. Took him long enough.

"I'm not trash . . ."

Yes you are.

"No. I'm not."

Yes! You are!

"No, I'm not! Fuck you! I did all I could to make him happy and he fucks that cunt? Are you motherfucking kidding me?!"

You could've stopped popping.

"I . . . I could have . . ."

And quit smoking.

"Could I . . . ?"

Mmhm. If you really wanted to.

"I . . . But it's not that bad."

It might be to him.

"Then that's fucked up! He _KNEW _what I do before dating me!"

People change. Except you. You're static. The constant, remember?

"Karkat said that . . ."

He still likes you. He cares about you. Even though you broke his heart.

"I did?"

You're fucking dense. It kills him when he sees you and Tavros. But he wants you to be happy, so he keeps his mouth shut. He values your happiness over his. You fucking asshole.

"I . . . He . . . D-does he love me?"

Ask him. Quit talking to yourself, freak.

You look over at Karkat, his red eyes narrowed with suspicion, one eyebrow raised. You're in your driveway. Dunno when you got here, and you don't really give a fuck.

"Gamzee?" he asks, leaning forward a little, pressing a hand to your forehead. "You finally snap?"

Your blank stare turns into a smile and you shake your head and laugh a little. "No. I think maybe I finally realized just what's going on in my life. Maybe . . . We should fuck."

He knits his brows and snorts. "Oh, ha-ha. You're hilarious. Lemme go change my pants now 'cause you just made me jizz in them."

Your gaze doesn't falter. Your amethyst eyes bore into his beautiful rubies with such intensity that you swear you can feel him control his breathing. You're serious. So Goddamn serious. And when he realizes this, done checking your vibe, his face turns the same color of his eyes.

"Um, okay? Where'd this come from?"

"It's been there for a while. It took some heart ache to figure it out. You're in love with me, hm?"

"Fuck no, shitstick."

"The lady doth motherfucking protest too much."

"Oh, suck a dick and get outta my car."

"I'll suck yours."

He groans out of aggravation and turns, thumping his head against the steering wheel. "You've already taken my first kiss, now you want my V-card, too?"

Oh. Wow. Another unexpected occurrence. "Wait, what? Whoa. Really?"

"Not something I'm exactly proud of." He turns to face you again and exhales roughly. "It's not a matter of morals. It's just that no one wants me. Fat, short, grumpy, stupid asshole – oh, boy! I wanna marry that! No. That shit doesn't happen in reality. At least, not to me. That's why I like romcoms so much. Because I'll never get something like that."

He's short and a grumpy asshole, but he's certainly not stupid and not fat at all. So, maybe he used to be or kids told him he was to be assholes and now he has ugly duckling syndrome? Kids are fucking vicious.

"You're not fat," you reply quietly, placing a hand on his knee and rubbing it comfortingly. "Or ugly or stupid or bad in any way. You're beautiful and fucking brilliant and the best person I know. No bullshit."

His lip quivers a little and you press yours to them to stop the shaking. "I . . . I bet you tell all the bitches that, huh?"

You smirk and wink. No, you really don't. You've only told Tavros anything like that. And that turned out bad. You're in serious mental turmoil. You don't wanna fuck this up. But you think hard on it and truly believe he's in love with you. The looks he gives you when you're with Tav makes sense. The fact that you're the only one he really confides in and that you're the only one he has let into his personal bubble make sense. He's seen you naked. You've seen him shirtless. And he wears long-sleeves and pants all the time like you. You know all he is. And you love it. You love him. Karkat is not a rebound. He's perfect. And makes sense. And is just all kinds of wonderful. He's yours. And you go for it.

"No, Karkles," you reply softly, sweetly. "I really don't. And you're no bitch. I love you. And you love me, right?"

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

What's with you and virgins lately? Maybe that's your new job. Defiler of the Pure! Rapist of Innocence! . . . Nah. But it certainly is a new experience. He's seen you naked quite a bit, but this time is different. It's the first time he blushes and looks away, embarrassed and shy and depleted completely of his normal fire. Maybe because it's no longer platonic. Or because there's the pressure of following up with something more.

He doesn't want you to see him naked. It takes so long just to get his shirt off. You kiss him all over and coax him into letting you see every inch of his naked body. You're almost a hundred by the time you're allowed to ease his underwear off. Fucking childhood traumas.

"I don't know how to do this," he says weakly, shakily, as he kneels over you in a perfect caricature of "Oh, God, I'm fucking terrified; please get me out of here."

"Shh." You push him over onto his back and pop open the lube bottle once yet again. "I'll do all the work."

His breath hitches and he whines a little when you slide the oily substance on his dick. "B-but, ah, don't-"

You bend down and kiss him, tossing the bottle onto the pile of freshly-shed clothes by the side of the bed. You adjust yourself just over him and ask, "Ready, Karkles?"

"A-aren't there steps or something?"

You put a finger to your chin and pretend like you're in deep thought. "Mm, nah."

He lets out a loud gasp as you lower yourself onto him. Been a while since you were on this end of the sex spectrum. It stings a little, but it's mostly pressure. And stretching. So maybe you should've done some prepwork. Oh, well.

You bend down over him and whisper, "I'm gonna ride you so hard that you won't be able to go to a rodeo without cumming in your pants."

"Oh, God." He goes to laugh, but you shut him up quickly by lifting and rotating your hips slowly. "Fuck!" He settles for making out with you instead of trying to talk.

You're quite the pro at this point. And it's unsettling how pleased you are to be showing virgins what you got and to be the first to touch them in such a way. Ever the consensual rapist. When all is said and done, you make him stick around and have nice chats about all that's been going on. You tell him about Tav and he seems skeptical that you're over, but doesn't dwell on it much. He tells you about all of his past crushes (Terezi was his longest and most productive crush, but . . .), and you tell him you really didn't have any others, but what the two of you are remains a mystery. You love him, but . . . Fuck. You don't wanna hurt him. Don't hurt him.

Around nine, he tells you he has to go and you hug him tightly and thank him for a wonderful time, much to his embarrassment.

"Seriously, bro," you mutter against his ear, kissing it lightly. "You're the best."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles back and pushes up against you until you back up some. "Good night, loser."

You head back up to your room and decide you should probably turn your phone back on. It vibrates senselessly for minutes until it ceases at forty-two missed calls and thirty-eight texts. All from Tavros. But there's only one voicemail. You ponder on everything that happened tonight and debate erasing it. You had five perfect months. You're not exactly ready to throw that away. Maybe you could be friends. After making sure you're not going to vomit, you take a deep breath and listen. Your heart stops immediately and you go cold and numb all over.

"Gamzee!" he cries, sniffing and sobbing hysterically. He sounds exhausted. "I-I didn't do it! I t-told her I was waiting for you a-and she said that she was going to surprise you with something and we heard f-footsteps and he she jumped on me! Please, Gamzee! I didn't w-want it! I love you! I love you so much! Please!" He sobs more and apologizes almost incoherently until the machine cuts him off.

Beep.

You let the phone fall from your hand and don't care when it hits the floor with a small pop. You don't care if it's broken. You don't care if it's not. You don't care about that bullshit. You fucked up. You assumed your loving boyfriend would do something like that. You assumed he would hurt you and willingly fuck someone else. You're an asshole. And you just cheated on him. And took your best friend's virginity, ruining his chances to give it to someone worthy. He'll hate you forever for this. And so will Tavros. And fuck. You're a horrible person.

That's it. You're done. You're tired of hurting everyone. You smoke all the dope you have left, even that shitty fucking resin bullshit. You take all the pills you can. You even take the regular pain pills and even some fucking allergy pills. You don't care. You want to die. You need to die. But . . . You don't. You don't want to die. Oh, God. You could've fixed this! You could've talked to them and sorted everything out!

"I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die," you say quietly to yourself. You're so scared. Will it hurt? How bad? Will you just go out? Where the fuck are you? You're not in your house. It's too dark to see. The grass is soft on your face. You call Karkat. You call him over and over and over. You call him senselessly. You call him until you can't move anymore. He finally answers and you smile at his voice. It's not angry enough. He's scared. But you're not so scared anymore. All you need is his voice. You can die this way.

"Gamzee? Gamzee! What the fuck's wrong?!"

Your Karkat. You love him so. He cares about you. So much. Poor Tavros. It's so hard to speak. You've lost the ability to move your arms and legs. Speak, motherfucker.

"H-help . . ."

It's so cold. And dark. Getting darker. Can't move. Fuck.

"GAMZEE!"

Save me.

* * *

**AN: Ta-da! Done. I hope you thoroughly enjoyed it. I like my chapters long justlikemymenwaitwhat. I never meant for this to be a fanfiction; it was just writing things about my life whilst stoned to let off some steam and it turned into a Homestuck thing. Funny how often that happens. Anyway, I've been considering a sequel. Would you guys like that?**

**Welp, thank you for reading. You're all beautiful. I love you. By the way ****Spaßmacher means clown, or joker or jester, haha. Fitting, I think. And all the chapter titles are Sixx:AM songs in German. The little phrases at the end of the chapters are just . . . Well, Google translate, my sweets.**

**You guys rock! Thanks for the inspiration to keep it going. :33 3**


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